pushing daisies
by koalakoala
Summary: She tells him thank you with the pretty side of her face and he tells her he's sorry. / Four times Sophie almost told Jem she loved him. Oneshot, for Project PULL.


**i.**

She steps reluctantly out of the carriage.

Charlotte prattles on about Jessamine and Will and Jem and Henry, and she tries her best to listen, even though to her they're Miss Jessamine and Mr. Herondale and etcetera. "The Institute" would block the sun if it was out, but it isn't (like always) and the sky is dreary.

Four mismatched-looking people stand uncomfortably together, plus two servants. Sophie defensively lets a lock of hair fall across _that_ side of her face.

"Are you French?" the blond girl asks, in a tone that suggests she doubts it.

Charlotte sighs, and it makes her sound older than she is. "You don't need to learn how to speak French, Jessamine."

Everyone tries not to stare, but they all do and the last thing she feels is surprise. The girl is more of the same and the man is nice enough and the handsome boy makes her skin crawl, and she wonders why Charlotte so enthusiastically insisted she would love them all.

"James Carstairs," the other boy introduces himself. He's so pale that it's striking, plaster-white skin and eyes like silver coins. For a minute she's speechless, then she hastily places her hand in his outstretched one.

"You're from Shanghai and you like to be called Jem," she blurts out, recalling Charlotte's ramblings.

Jem grins, but not at all like the other boy did. And all of a sudden she's sure that he would never come at her with a dirty knife while guests drinking from china teacups downstairs ignored her screams, or laughed too loudly to hear them.

(She ignores the fact that he would never have a reason to cut open her face, because if he wanted her like that, she doesn't think she'd refuse him.)

"That sums me up quite nicely," he says.

She releases his hand, and she realizes that his eyes never lingered with anything other than courtesy on her barely-healed skin and imperfect stitches. He'd met her eyes, something only Charlotte had done.

He looked at her and didn't see scars.

The two servants take her on a confusing tour of the Institute. Agatha makes her tie her hair up, like a proper maid, and when she helps Thomas serve supper that evening she thinks it might be possible to die from the pity on all their faces.

Jem looks at her with only understanding, and later she learns why.

At the very least, she'd planned to stay a week. But the weeks stack up, and she tells herself that it's because Agatha is nice and Thomas is sweet and Jessamine is charming at rare moments, which are all true, but not really.

She sneaks glances and thinks there are worse people to fall in love with.

**ii.**

Steam hisses out of the old iron. Sophie smooths every crease and pretends she isn't daydreaming. But she does dream, of sunny days and picnics in the park.

Silk gloves and letting her hair down and rouge on her cheekbones. All of which is less than likely.

Thomas offers to help with an eager smile, but he knows how to wield knives and not irons and she's nearly finished besides. A pile of neatly folded shirts for Mr. Branwell, a less neat stack for Mr. Herondale because he'll no doubt wrinkle them anyway.

She saves the best for last. "Mr. Carstairs," she greets, because she isn't careless. At least, she tries not to be. He's not Mr. Carstairs in her head but he's never anything otherwise on her lips.

He looks up from the book he's reading and says, "You know I would prefer if you'd call me Jem, Miss Collins."

She deposits his blank shirts—the ones she double-checks and folds extra carefully, as Agatha shakes her head with a knowing look—and answers, "I'd prefer not."

It's too bold, but he only shakes his head and thanks her for the ironing.

Sunday afternoon. Every week. She washes their clothes and presses them stiff and delivers them, like clockwork. Except this time, he's reading _Jane Eyre_.

She knows the story, of Jane and Mr. Rochester, her employer. Except Jane was plain and Mr. Rochester was arrogant, whereas she's half pretty—more like Blanche—and he's perfect and dying. But the premise is the same, almost. The crucial difference is that Mr. Rochester loved Jane.

The words tremble at her lips. He would no doubt say something kind, and she might feel better. But Jem looks up, surprised to find she's still there, and asks her if she's read it.

Sophie says she hasn't.

**iii.**

"You don't need a mask, Sophie."

She jumps and guiltily fumbles with the ribbon tied against her hair, blood rushing to her cheeks. She can't bear to look at him as she sets the mask back on Tessa's armoire.

Jem smiles, but he looks tired. She thinks she really should stop calling him Jem.

"Miss Gray isn't here," she says needlessly, because this is her room and why else would he be here?

"I figured," he says lightly, but she knows him well enough to know he's disappointed. "But now that you're here and she isn't, I might as well tell you how grateful I am, for everything you've done for her these past weeks."

She keeps her eyes carefully away from ever meeting his. "It's something of a relief from Jessamine, to be honest."

"I've always said that Charlotte doesn't pay you nearly enough," Jem says. Sophie thinks it's awfully nice of him to say, but her wages are fine.

"I never spend any of it, anyway," she lets herself say.

Jem's smile fades a little. "I know what you're saving for. You want to get surgery, don't you? For your scars."

He never misses anything. It's one of the things she loves about him. And he must know that too, of course.

"You don't approve?"

"No," he says. Plain and always honest, she loves that too. "As I said, you don't need a mask."

He lifts her chin delicately, and this is all kinds of improper, but she's not going to be the first one to pull away. Maybe if this was a dream he would kiss her. But instead he just traces her scars. She wears them proudly only because they're there, not because she wants them there. They're not pretty like his.

Sophie swallows and says, "Not everyone sees things the way you do, James."

Not _Mr. Carstairs_, but not quite _Jem_.

He says she's cynical and she doesn't argue. They both have perfectly good reasons to be heartless, but there's no doubt that he's a better person than she is.

His fingers reach the ends of her scars, and she _knows_ she's ridiculous for suddenly wishing they were longer, that they'd curl down her neck.

She tells him thank you with the pretty side of her face and he tells her he's sorry.

**iv.**

_It's all right to love someone who doesn't love you back, as long as they're worth you loving them. As long as they_deserve _it._

Jem deserves it more than anyone she's ever known.

The stems droop, curving around her fingers. No one else has brought him flowers—it's too much of a mundane custom—but at least she can be unique.

He says, with difficulty, "I'm glad you came, Sophie."

He looks so weak, but she knows it's only physically and hates that he accepted this so many years ago.

She gives him an empty marmalade jar and places the daisies inside, because she can't think of anything to say except what she shouldn't. Dying people shouldn't feel guilty. But Sophie brushes her dark hair out of her face and turns her head to the left; she doesn't want to hide anymore, at least not from him.

Jem's fingers are cold.

"I know," he says.


End file.
